Chapter 15

In the course of the day, Amanda learned that Two Owls was Kiowa, not Comanche, and that Walks With Sunshade, his Comanche wife, and Little Doe, his Kiowa one, whose mien was one of perpetual pout, did not get along. There had been a daughter born to Little Doe, Clay discovered and passed on to Amanda, but the child had died from “ghost sickness.” It was why they’d chosen to live in Ketanah’s camp—they had no confidence in the Kiowa medicine man who’d treated the little girl, and they believed if Nahdehwah had been there, their child would have survived.

To Amanda, Little Doe’s behavior looked more like jealousy than grief, and noting the younger wife’s swollen belly, she could almost sense the other woman’s despair. But both of them were united in one thing—neither wanted to welcome Nahakoah’s woman into Two Owls’s tipi. If McAlester and the big Kiowa hadn’t been there, Amanda had not the least doubt that the two wives would have joined forces to do her bodily harm.

As it was, Little Doe watched her, her dark eyes malevolent. And whenever she thought no one was looking, she jabbed her unwanted guest with a red-hot stick from the fire. Hearing Amanda cry out in surprise, Walks With Sunshade loudly scolded her rival, and the older woman answered insolently.

Two Owls came outside to mediate the quarrel between his wives, and once Walks With Sunshade explained what happened, he jerked Little Doe behind the tipi, where he shouted at her, while the Comanche wife sat listening, smugly satisfied. When they came back, the Kiowa woman was obviously subdued. It had been, Amanda reflected, much like the proverbial trip to the woodpile.

Not that Walks With Sunshade was any better. Several times, she’d come over and lifted Amanda’s tangled auburn hair as though she admired it, but when no one was looking, she pulled it hard enough to bring tears to the white girl’s eyes. The last time she did it, Amanda reached out and pinched her, holding on, staring her down, until the Indian woman let go. Through it all, Clay McAlester and Two Owls seemed oblivious to what was going on.

The final straw came when both men left her alone with the feuding wives. Little Doe sidled up with a steaming pot and “accidentally” dumped boiling stew on Amanda’s borrowed calico dress, then taunted her. That was the final straw. Forgetting years of convent school and proper Boston upbringing, Amanda caught her tormentor by the knees, bringing her down. The stew spilled, burning Little Doe’s arm, then ran in thick rivulets over the hard-packed earth.

Little Doe was remarkably agile, and she came up ready to fight. Her gravy-streaked hands grasped Amanda’s hair, pulling it. Unable to get loose, Amanda sank her teeth into the woman’s burned arm and bit hard. Little Doe screamed, bringing Two Owls at a dead run, but when he saw what was happening, he made no move to intervene. As the Kiowa woman fought and struggled, Amanda’s teeth locked in her flesh, and her arms wrapped around Little Doe’s body, imprisoning her in a bearlike embrace. Despite the taste of dirt, sweat, stew and blood, she held on.

Walks With Sunshade circled them, holding a large metal spoon like a weapon, darting in to strike a blow every now and then, usually hitting her husband’s other wife. And all the while, she kept up a steady, high-pitched shrieking. A group of squaws drawn by the commotion shouted encouragement at Little Doe, as though they watched some sort of contest. A few men and several children joined them.

Returning from the spring, Clay heard the noise and saw the crowd. Pushing his way through them, he caught Amanda from behind. “Whoa now! What the devil …?” But she wasn’t about to let Little Doe loose. He saw the blood trickle down the screaming Kiowa woman’s arm. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, looking to Two Owls.

The Indian grunted, then shook his head, indicating he didn’t want Nahakoah to stop them. “Your woman can fight,” he said. “Let her take care of herself.”

Trying to get away, Little Doe scratched and pummeled the white girl to no avail, until finally she managed to grab the neck of Amanda’s dress, pulling it up over her head, exposing her pale legs. For answer, Amanda’s hands caught Little Doe’s hair, pulling out a good handful of it. The Indian woman turned loose and fell wailing to the ground.

“Had enough?’ Amanda gasped.

Looking around at the now subdued crowd, Amanda realized the enormity of what she’d done. Little Doe staggered up, still clutching her head with one hand, her bleeding arm with the other. Two Owls spoke sharply to her, then pushed her roughly into the tipi, where she could be heard railing and ranting. As he turned back to her, Amanda’s stomach knotted, but the big Indian was grinning. He came over and patted her shoulder, apparently congratulating her.

McAlester looked at the stew and blood on her dress, then went inside. Exhausted, Amanda sank to her knees, panting, fighting an urge to weep. Her face inscrutable, Walks With Sunshade came up and began silently wiping what she could of the mess off the calico cloth. The other women filed past, some pausing to speak a word or two before going. It was probably just as well that Amanda couldn’t understand them, she thought, but at least they were no longer belligerent.

Feeling ashamed and humiliated, she knelt there, wondering what McAlester was going to do. When he came out, he had the clothes Nahdehwah had washed in his hand. Leaning down, he reached to pull her up, then supported her for a moment with his arm. She closed her eyes to hide from him.

“Come on. I see you can walk now,” was all he said.

Releasing her, he began walking away. Glancing nervously toward the Indians, Amanda followed. So tired she was shaking, she couldn’t keep up with him. Finally, just before he reached the spring, she caught at a tree limb and held on, panting. He turned back.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she managed to choke out. “You don’t know what she did to me.”

He stood there, looking at her, one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile, his blue eyes perceptibly warm. “I’m not mad,” he said softly. “I’m damned proud of you.”

“Every time you weren’t looking, that Indian witch tried to hurt me.” Then she realized what he’d said. “You mean you don’t mind?” she asked incredulously.

“No.”

She stared. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you,” she decided finally.

“You did what you had to do.”

She’d been prepared for his anger, not his admiration. And rather than relief, she felt almost betrayed by his manner. “Much you would know about it,” she snapped, accusing him. “You said you wouldn’t leave me alone with them—you promised you wouldn’t! Where were you, anyway?”

“I didn’t know you wanted to take a bath with me. Next time, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Oh—now, that’s too much!”

“You can’t have it both ways, Amanda.”

He walked back to where she still held onto the tree branch. Reaching for her free hand, he pressed a hard cake into it. She looked down, seeing what appeared to be lye soap. When she raised her eyes, she realized his hair clung wetly to his shoulders, spotting his clean white shirt. The oddly detached thought that he’d shaved crossed her mind.

“Well, you might have told me, in any event,” she muttered, looking away.

“I’d say you took care of yourself.”

“I’m lucky they didn’t decide to kill me. What would you have done then?”

“Two Owls wouldn’t let it happen. As it is, Little Doe has disgraced herself and him, so you probably won’t see much of her again. While it is acceptable to taunt and threaten a captive, it is forbidden to harm any who comes as a guest.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past them,” she muttered.

“Look—do you want a bath or not?”

“Here? In broad daylight?” She glanced down at the soap in her hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“The water’s a little cold, but it’s a whole lot cleaner than the Pecos.” When she said nothing, he held out the shirt and drawers she’d worn into the camp. “Nahdehwah got most of the dirt out.”

“I can’t take a bath here.”

“If you hurry, nobody’ll see you. I’ll stand guard,” he promised.

“You’ll be here.”

“I’ll turn my back. Go on in, and I’ll sit over there,” he said, pointing toward a clump of cottonwoods. Seeing that she hesitated, he sighed. “As I told you before, you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen anywhere else, but I don’t aim to look. So you might as well wash the stink and grease off before you try to eat. I don’t know about you, but I feel a damned sight better clean.” As a gesture of good faith, he walked toward the trees, then dropped down to sit under them, facing away from her.

She reached up, feeling her dirty, matted hair; then she rubbed her face. Nahdehwah’s black grease came off on the back of her hand, and she knew she had to be an awful sight. She edged closer to the spring-fed pool, then looked over her shoulder. He was still sitting there, his back to her.

“How deep is it?” she called out.

“I wouldn’t wade too far in,” he answered without moving. “And I wouldn’t stay too long.”

The spring was sheltered by a rock wall that rose above it and tangled cottonwoods on either side, leaving only the path they’d walked between. Casting one last nervous glance backward, she quickly pulled off Nahdehwah’s dress, eyed the crystal-clear water, and stepped in gingerly.

The clarity made the depth deceptive, and she plunged in all the way to her breasts before her feet touched bottom. The water was unbelievably cold. “Whooo!” she gasped in shock.

But she was in, and there was no turning back now. Before she could lose her nerve, she ducked her head underwater, then came up. Grasping the chunk of soap, she rubbed it over her hair, savoring the strong, clean smell, then quickly went over her face, arms, and body before tossing the soap onto the grass, Shivering almost uncontrollably from the cold, she bent her knees and went under again. Her hair swirled out in the clear water, then she came up, smoothing it back from her face, squeezing it out.

Clay leaned forward, clasping his knees, trying not to think of the naked woman in the water. He had too much to do, and not enough time to do it. In fact, if he meant to intercept Sanchez-Torres, he was going to have to leave, and the sooner he did it, the better. All hell was going to break loose when Amanda found out, but with any luck, he wouldn’t be there to see it. He’d just have to creep out without waking her in the morning.

He didn’t want to think about that either. Resolutely, he went over everything he knew about Sanchez-Torres, playing a mental game, trying to outguess him. And for once he wished he had Hap with him. Unless he managed an ambush, it was going to be hell taking the Comancheros alone. Maybe he was just spooked, or maybe he was getting old, but he’d never felt mortal before. At twenty-eight, he was already older than any active ranger except Hap. The legendary Rip Ford had said it once—rangering was for young fools too green to be afraid.

Not that he could say he was afraid. No, he’d spent too many years with the Comanches for that, and he prided himself in having the fatalism expected of a warrior. It wasn’t when—it was how a man died that counted. He’d always sort of expected he wouldn’t see the other side of thirty, and somehow that hadn’t mattered. Aside from Hap, he didn’t have anybody to mourn him.

“Aiyeeeeee!”

He sprang to his feet at the sound of her scream, his gun drawn. Ahead of him in the path stood a Comanche, buck-naked except for his breechclout. The man looked from Clay to Amanda, then back again.

As Amanda watched, McAlester put away his revolver and pointed his hand, apparently a friendly gesture. The Indian smiled, and for what seemed an interminable time to her, they talked. She stood there, her arms crossed over her bare breasts, her whole body shaking, her teeth chattering from the cold water. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she said loudly, “If you d-don’t m-mind, I’d like t-to g-get out.”

He swung around, utterly unprepared for the effect she had on him. As his gaze moved from her face to her wet shoulders, he felt his mouth go dry. His thoughts must have been written on his face, because she reddened and crossed her arms more tightly. But it didn’t matter. His mind already ran wild.

The Indian, who’d come for water, walked closer, knelt, and cupped his hands, dipping them, then drank. When he finished, he wiped his hands on the breechclout, said something Clay didn’t even hear, and disappeared. “S-some g-guard you are,” Amanda muttered, shivering.

“I’ll get your clothes,” Clay said hoarsely, turning away. Picking them up, he tossed them closer, then retreated.

She didn’t even have a towel for drying. She glanced at McAlester’s back, then up the path, satisfying herself that no one was looking, before she darted from the water and scooped up the shirt and drawers. Freezing despite the hot air, she quickly dived into the shirt and pulled it over her head. It clung to her wet body as she jerked it downward, nearly covering her thighs.

Thinking she’d had enough time, he turned around as she was buttoning the neck placket. Where the water spotted the cloth, it was semitransparent, showing the dark outline of her cold-hardened nipples. His breath caught in his chest.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, retreating back to the cottonwoods. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

But the damage was already done. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget seeing her like that. But even as desire rose within him, reason whispered, reminding him that she was Big John Ross’s daughter, an heiress far above his touch. He leaned against a tree and counted slowly, silently to one hundred, giving her time to get into her drawers.

Self-conscious now, Amanda fanned the shirt, trying to dry it, then tugged at the legs of the drawers, loosening them. She was barely covered, and her teeth still chattered, but at least she was clean. Bending forward, she squeezed more water from her hair, then straightened, tossing it back over her shoulder.

“I g-guess I’m r-ready,” she said, trying to comb the tangled mass with her fingers.

He turned around slowly, not trusting himself to speak. She was biting her lip, eyeing him hesitantly. She forced a tentative smile.

“Not m-much of a fashion plate, am I?”

“No.”

He was looking at her oddly, unnerving her. “Yes, well … I uh … expect we ought to get back,” she managed.

“Yes.”

But he didn’t move. She walked the path toward him, acutely aware of his eyes on her.

“Is s-something the m-matter?”

“Yes.”

Her hand crept self-consciously to her wet hair. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter. Come on—I’ll get you a comb.”

With that he turned and started back toward the camp. She stared after him, then hurried to catch up. When she glanced at him, his face was closed, devoid of emotion. But she’d already seen the heat in his eyes, and it had been enough to make her heart pause.